


Hollow All Delight

by doctornerdington



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Femslash June 2015, Fisting, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Jaime/Brienne (implied), Jaime/Cersei (implied), Love Triangles, PWP, Power Dynamics, Sexual Fluidity, Shameless Smut, all the lady sex, autonomy, elaboration on canon, some canon divergence, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 00:42:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4242981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctornerdington/pseuds/doctornerdington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Late one evening, Queen Cersei came at her, cornering her in an empty corridor and swooping in like a bird of prey: drunk, mocking, sublime. “My lady knight,” Cersei sneered, and then she kissed her, hard and angry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hollow All Delight

**Author's Note:**

> Set right after Brienne and Jaime arrive at King’s Landing (season 3, episode 10). I understand this happens in the Storm of Swords book, but the timing is different there.

Brienne of Tarth did not love King’s Landing. In truth, she loathed it – loathed the sharp, mingled smells of so many people living too close together, loathed the garments she was forced to wear at court, loathed the person she was forced to be. Most of all, she loathed the artifice of it all, the layers upon layers of intrigue and betrayal with which the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms debased themselves. It turned her stomach to see nobility so bankrupt.

With every second she spent within the walls of the city, she missed the road. Sometimes she thought her heart would break for the lack of the honest weight of her sword swinging comfortingly at her side. She missed even the ache in her legs after a long day’s march.  

The last time she’d been happy, she’d been five days from the city. She’d not washed in more than a week and her hair lay in greasy tangles on her forehead. She’d barely slept in three days, and yet she bore Jaime’s weight against her side easily when he faltered. That had been a happiness so elemental she’d nearly failed to recognize it. His companionship had been precious, because so rare. Because so fleeting.

Nearing the city, they had passed more and more travelers on the road, and she had begun to notice the inevitable stares. No matter; her armor was more than thick enough to handle the glancing blow of curiosity. Jaime had tensed beside her, but she had only raised her head, set her jaw, and walked on. Knight, lady, oath-keeper. It took much more than curiosity to wound a woman strong as she.

A song had lodged itself in her mind there, on the road. It repeated itself over and over, a song from her childhood, from Tarth – so old that no one knew who had first brought it over the Narrow Sea from the Stormlands. She had latched onto it, or it perhaps latched on to her. “ _We are blown along a wandering wind,_ ” she had sung under her breath. Jaime had turned to her with a question in his eyes and had said nothing. Each beat was a step as she strode forward.  “ _We are blown along a wandering wind,_ a _nd hollow, hollow, hollow all delight._ ” Jaime leaned heavily into her side.

By the time they were nearing the city he was humming it with her, even through his near-delirium. He was very ill by then.

She missed Jaime now. Started missing him the moment he was taken from her side upon their arrival in the city. His wound was grievous; he needed the wisdom of the maisters to recover, needed his family, his home. It was well for him to go, and yet she regretted it. She was not glad of his disfigurement, no. But Brienne had wisdom enough to see that it was the loss of his hand that bonded him to her at the last, for each inhabited a body set apart by difference. Like knew like, and embraced it. Until it was gone.

She was given chambers at court befitting a noble guest with a view of a pleasant courtyard, a bed more luxurious than she had known in years, and a private washstand with a mirror of beaten silver. She ignored the latter, knowing it would not reflect truth to her. She saw herself clearly in streams, in ponds, reflected up in lakes and rivers; in ripples and waves, from horses’ backs and with sword in hand. The image that appeared in beaten silver was a caricature only, one she was practiced at ignoring.

The near-nightly feasts and elaborate social obligations of the court left her similarly wrong-footed, not least because of the attention she garnered. Her height, her strength – her natural advantages – they made her freakish here.  Her skin crawled with cruel and mocking eyes always upon her.

There were other eyes upon her too, though, and she was surprised to find that Queen Cersei’s were among them. Brienne had drawn women’s interest all her life – women, and a certain type of men. She knew the dance of appalled desire so terribly well, and she waited and watched the beautiful mess at the boy king’s side.

Cersei wielded the pleasantries of the court like finely-honed steel, with a power that was foreign to Brienne, but a drive that was terribly familiar. The more Brienne watched her (narrowly, secretly, increasingly), the more her ambition was illuminated, the more she ached: Cersei wanted to own the world so that she could own herself. The naked hunger in her eyes so obscenely compelling; Brienne felt the pull of it her between her legs every time Cersei’s glance raked over her. It happened more and more often. Cersei’s eyes began to linger. An answering spark kindled in Brienne’s breast.

Late one evening after a feast, several weeks after her arrival in King’s Landing, Queen Cersei at last came at her, cornering her in an empty corridor, swooping in like a bird of prey: drunk, mocking, sublime. “My lady knight,” Cersei sneered, and then she kissed her, hard and angry. Brienne was lost in biting perfume, clouds of crimson silk. Her heart was pounding in her chest. She opened her mouth and deepened the kiss; drinking Cersei down in deep draughts. Moments passed in breathy silence; Brienne’s hands tangled in locks so silken they barely registered on her calloused skin.

And then Brienne regained herself, struggled back, turned, the kiss ended awkwardly on her cheek. It was that, she thought, or have the woman right here against the wall, insensible with drink. Cersei pulled back, looked at her, shocked.

She has, Brienne thought, her brother’s eyes. And she knew that she was lost.

There was a pause.

“You do not want me,” Cersei said softly. It was not a question, and held more than a hint of menace.

“I do not want you drunk, Your Grace.”

Quick as fire, Cersei raised her hand, slapped her, hard, across the face. “You dictate to me?”

Brienne swallowed and did not move; did not allow her eyes to soften. “No. You have sorrows enough to forget.”

Cersei’s eyes narrowed.

“I do not want you drunk,” she repeated. And yet, her hand reached across the space between them of its own accord, traced Cersei’s lips. “I did not say I do not want you.” The hand trailed down, following the jewels at Cersei’s throat, and then the swell of her breast, very slowly. Brienne was not, in the end, quite as honourable as she aspired to be.

Cersei held very still, her gaze unfocused. Very slightly, she leaned forward into Brienne’s touch.

And then with a start, Cersei pulled away. Storm-swept eyes locked with fairer blue. With clear intent, Cersei drew back her arm. Slapped Brienne again, harder.

Brienne held her gaze steady; would not drop her eyes, did not flinch.

Cersei turned and stalked away, weaving slightly.

* * *

So was the gauntlet was thrown. Brienne schooled herself to patience; did not look for Cersei in the great halls of court, did not turn her head when heralds sounded. And if she thought to herself about twining long and curling tresses around her blunt fingers, if she remembered soft lips turning sharp against her own, if she held a hand to her cheek, remembering the sting, still she had battled before. This was not the time to advance. She would bide.

* * *

She saw Jaime only occasionally, sweeping through the halls with a coterie of guards, murmuring with the Hand in the shadows of the court, hurrying after his father. She was glad to see him well. Mostly glad. Always, now, there was purpose to his stride. Only once did he see her, hanging back, apart from the other women, and stop to talk. Their conversation, then, had been stilted, awkward, as it never had been before. She wanted to ask after his recovery, his arm, the efficacy of the maister’s treatments, his family. She wanted to know all, but she was – if not in his eyes, certainly in the eyes of the court vultures around them – a lady, and it was not her place.

He politely inquired as to the suitability of her rooms; he plainly did not care about the suitability of her rooms. What was between them could not exist in this place; it was so far removed from court as to be unintelligible here. She saw frustration in his eyes as he turned and stalked away. She wanted nothing more than to join him. Not for the first time, Brienne damned her sex.

* * *

She received the summons just a few days later. It was a warm afternoon. Brienne sweated in her chamber watching with profound boredom as noble nurslings fought with play swords in the shade of the courtyard below. It was a testament to her time at court that this was the most interesting thing she’d seen since she arrived.

And then there was a deferential knock: a girl, asking her to follow; the Queen had sent for her. Brienne raised her eyebrows when she saw the child in the hall: one of Cersei’s youngest attendants, and not a royal page. This was not official business.

She bid the maid wait in the hall and made herself ready, gratefully stripping away the uncomfortable gown that only held her up for mockery. She had already decided that if and when the time came, she would go to the queen as herself.

But first, she stepped to her basin. With a soft cloth and thick cake of lavender soap, she washed in cool water, scrubbing pale skin until it glowed pink, then combed her damp hair neatly back. She dressed carefully in soft breeches and a simple shift tunic, pulled on her boots, and looked at her armor, considering. It would not do to wear it all, but perhaps…

She pulled out one or two pieces, the best of the lot, if not the finest; recently cleaned and so well-used they felt like second skin. Slipping them on, Brienne felt more at ease – more herself – than she had since her arrival in the city. Even her posture became more natural. She clung to this comfort fiercely, thinking of Jaime’s pride, the Queen’s wildness.

Quelling strange flutters in her abdomen, Brienne took a deep breath and opened her door. The maid led her through the labyrinthine halls to Cersei’s private chambers, and they passed no others, no nobles or even servants.

The guard at Cersei’s door stood aside as they approached, checking rather obviously for swords or other weapons on her person. Brienne nodded to him. She carried neither sword nor dagger, knowing well the difference between bravado and bravery. The maid opened the door, announced Brienne’s arrival, and withdrew like a mouse, closing the door firmly after her. Brienne heard the guard cough and move down the hall to a more distant vantage point. Without thinking, she lifted the heavy interior lock and slid it home securely.

The room was silent.

Brienne appeared to be alone in the Queen’s private bedchamber, extravagantly decorated in tapestries and curios from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms. She took a moment to study a portrait mounted on the wall, but the figure swam before her eyes. The air itself was perfumed and in the heat of the afternoon, the atmosphere was close. She reached out and fingered a fluttering silk drape, but the fine fabric snagged on her rough hands and she drew quickly back. Against the far wall stood Cersei’s bed, as elaborate and ornamental as Brienne had imagined. This was where the Queen slept, where she had her most private and intimate moments. Where she took her pleasure. Alone? With Jaime? With others? Her skin suddenly felt too tight.

And where _was_ the Queen? Perhaps she had grown impatient while she had washed. Perhaps she imagined Brienne to be uninterested. She cursed herself for succumbing to stupid vanity, then doubly cursed herself a fool for the swooping disappointment now twisting in her gut. She turned to leave. A voice from a far balcony stopped her.

“Stop. Stay.”

Cersei had been watching her, then. Brienne’s cheeks warmed at the thought. “Your Grace,” she replied formally.

Cersei came quickly to her then, hair down in flowing, golden rivulets, and dressed in an ostentatiously simple blue gown tied neatly at the waist. Her feet were bare. Brienne shivered despite the heat, and observed the other closely.

Cersei’s stride was confident; her eyes clear and quick. No bottles or goblets were in evidence. Good then, Brienne thought, and at the same time an urgent and chaotic wanting snaked into her body, beginning in her most secret parts and spreading outwards through her limbs.

Cersei’s gaze never left her face. She walked slowly to the elegant chaise that stood in an alcove across from the bedstead and dropped into it, arranging herself with artful elegance.

“Come closer. Stand by me.”

Brienne did so, her heart beating quicker.

“Strip off your things,” Cersei ordered languidly.

Brienne swallowed. She could feel the heat rising to her face. She would no more back away from Cersei’s flinty gaze than she would retreat in battle; but how her vital parts quivered, how her face flamed.

While Cersei watched her from the chaise, Brienne removed her armor. Gorget first: finely crafted and subtle leather slipped over her head. Then her brigandine, unbuckled slowly and put aside. Cersei’s eyes traced fiery paths across the gauzy, creased tunic underneath until she gave into impatience and reached out, grabbing fistfuls of fabric and yanking Brienne closer.

“Take this off.” She ripped at the tunic. “I want to _see_ you.”

Brienne obeyed, slowly as she dared, removing the garment and her breeches, finally standing naked under Cersei’s scrutiny. Expectation, arousal pulsed between her legs.

Brienne’s body was strong, corded with muscle, her skin alabaster subtly overlaid with gold. She was proud of it, of its capability. Cersei tilted her head, cocking her chin and looking up at her consideringly in a way that reminded Brienne desperately of her brother.

At last, Cersei stood. With a single finger, she traced feather-light along Brienne’s jaw, down her throat, over her breast and stomach.

“My lady knight,” she said, “show me that you want me.”

Brienne looked quickly into Cersei’s face, and the women locked eyes. I will not, Brienne told herself, be ashamed.

Slowly, Brienne reached out and took Cersei’s hand. “I want you, Your Grace” she said, placing the hand over her sex. Cersei’s face betrayed nothing. Her fingers stroked Brienne’s sweet golden fuzz, then dipped into the cleft, finding it slippery and wet.

“So you do.” Her fingers teased back and forth, back and forth.

Brienne’s breath hitched, audibly. She swallowed. Widened her stance. 

And then, the tension that had filled the room broke – all floodgates opened, all restraint was abandoned.

Cersei surged forward and captured Brienne’s mouth in a bruising kiss. One hand remained between Brienne’s legs, and she began to work her fingers over her sex, first slowly, and then quicker, harder, almost angrily. The other buried itself in Brienne’s short hair, pulling tightly. Brienne groaned into her mouth and kissed her deeply, hands moving between Cersei’s waist, her arms, her back, pulling her in close. Soft thighs, belly, breasts rubbed against her. Cersei had all the softness that she herself lacked, but her barbed mouth stung and her fingers pressed bruises everywhere they touched. Her kisses were not generous, held no warmth, yet Brienne was dizzy, gasping, burning. Somewhere in the dark, hidden places of her mind Brienne wondered, is this what it would be to kiss the brother? Hard and dangerous, this thought, a tiny, prophylactic dose of poison. She turned from it.

And then she thought no more, for Cersei bit down hard on Brienne’s bottom lip and what had been incendiary turned frantic. Cersei bit again, again, then sucked the lip into her mouth, laving at the mark she’d left.

Boldly, Brienne removed a hand from where it grasped Cersei’s waist and rose to cup a firm, heavy breast. Cersei wore no stays, naked and curving and warm beneath the light gauze of her gown. Brienne leaned to kiss the delicate skin at Cersei’s throat. All the while, her busy fingers roamed, mapping Cersei’s breast.

She should not have dared; she could not have stopped. 

Cersei tipped her head back, allowing Brienne greater access to her throat. What is granted cannot be taken. Blindly, she reached for Brienne’s hand where it lay on her breast and, finding it, lay her own atop it, arching into it, pushing, pushing, pushing. Brienne found her nipple and pinched; Cersei cried out, spun around, out of Brienne’s arms.

“You are a strange woman,” she panted.

Brienne did not feel strange, yet she knew that it was true. “Your Grace,” she acknowledged. She licked her lip where the Queen had marked her. It felt like a battle mark. It felt like power.

Cersei had moved away (it was not, surely, a retreat); stood now on the other side of the bed. Brienne followed, magnetically drawn. She came to stand behind her; threaded her hands at last through Cersei’s long hair, twisting up the locks in her fingers. And then she dared. Swept the hair Cersei’s neck with an ungentle tug and bit down hard upon her nape. Cersei tasted of salt, of dark honey, of musk. Once tasted, Brienne could not keep her mouth off of her. She made a feast of it.

Cersei took a shuddering breath and began to tremble, ever so subtly, on the exhale.  

Unrebuked, Brienne grew bolder. Her hands began to wander as she sucked red marks into Cersei’s neck. She reached around and pulled Cersei in, tight against her nakedness. Her hands found Cersei’s breasts again. Sought nipples. Cersei’s trembling grew wilder. Brienne’s hand dropped lower. Caressed her stomach through her gown. Found the joining of her legs and gripped, pressing up hard between them. Just a thin layer of gauze now lay between the Queen’s sex and her hand.

Cersei gave a broken little cry and leaned back into Brienne with all her body weight, squeezing her thighs hard together. Brienne’s hand took up a firm rhythm; Cersei echoed it with a shameless undulation in her hips. It drove Brienne near mad to feel it. Standing behind Cersei like this, touching her was so like touching herself – and just as gratifying. Though Cersei’s gown inhibited subtlety, Brienne sensed she would resist nakedness in herself. She stroked her as well as she was able, gradually increasing pace and pressure until Cersei’s body tensed in her arms, on the edge of pleasure. But Brienne did not want it to happen like this. She wanted to see Cersei’s face, to see their sex refracted out of the deep pools of her eyes, to see her flush and sweat and cry. She slowed her movements, brought Cersei back from the edge.

She nuzzled into the side of Cersei’s throat and whispered into her ear, “May I taste you, Your Grace?” She felt depraved. Her cheeks were crimson. With her hand, she indicated where, exactly, she had in mind.

Cersei stilled in her arms. There was a moment of silence, and then she shook her head.

“Not that, no. No.” She pulled away; leaned against the bedstead recovering her breath. Her hair fell around her face. “Get up on the bed,” she told Brienne without looking at her.

Brienne bowed her head. “Your Grace, you are also… strange.” She wondered if she were about to be slapped again, but Cersei only turned to her and smiled, though her hair, the narrow smile she used at court.

“Perhaps.” She straightened and threw herself upon the bed – thicker and softer than any Brienne had ever seen – and beckoned. “Come.”

Brienne clambered up onto the bed and Cersei pulled her immediately into a crushing kiss. She wrapped one hand around the back of Brienne’s neck and rested the other on her jaw as she tilted her head and delved deeply into her mouth, pressing her body against her. It felt so incongruous with the coldness of Cersei’s smile that Brienne had a moment of unsteadiness. She had no idea, after all, what the Queen wanted from her.

“Get on your back,” Cersei ordered when they finally broke apart.

Brienne scrambled to obey. She lay back against opulent pillows, breathing shallowly, so wet she thought she must be dripping.

Cersei crawled to her, grasped her legs and drew them apart. She gazed intently at Brienne’s face as she did this, then ducked to examine her sex. Brienne felt her breath upon it and shivered convulsively. Mindlessly, her hips thrust up, seeking contact. Cersei pulled back, smiling a more honest smile.

“Not yet, pet.”

She crawled up Brienne’s body and kissed her again, hard and long, nipping at the bruised mark she had made earlier. As they kissed, Cersei grabbed at Brienne’s breasts, thumbed a nipple roughly. Brienne cried out; wrapped a leg around Cersei and drew her in, mashing their bodies, mouths, cunts together. Cersei moaned softly. She made so few noises that this went to Brienne’s head. She arched back against the pillows, pushing up against Cersei with all her strength. Cersei’s thrice-damned gown was enraging, but her own body’s demands had taken her over and she could not have stopped for anything now – not if she tried.

As Cersei gasped into her mouth, Brienne felt a crest rising within her; she cried out and moved wildly against Cersei.

But Cersei’s eyes widened and she pulled to the side, panting.

“No,” she said. “Your pleasure is mine to give. Mine.”

Brienne wanted to sob, wanted to beg. Before she could do either, Cersei had pulled her legs apart and thrust a finger, then two, inside her. She cried out in relief.

“ _You_ are mine,” Cersei gasped, plunging deep into Brienne’s sex.

“No,” Brienne replied, arching, thrusting up into Cersei’s relentless hand. She cried out as Cersei took a hard, pink nipple between her teeth and bit, mercilessly. “I belong to no one,” she gasped, eyes closed. “No more do you.”

At that, Cersei pulled back and out, rising up on one elbow and looking at Brienne intently. Motionless, she waited until Brienne opened her eyes, and then she smiled, but it was the treacherous smile of the Queen.

“Did I not belong to Robert?” she asked. “And equally, to Joffery? Do I not belong to my father, to dispose of as he will?” And then, poisonously, she added, “do we not both belong to Jaime, in our ways?”

Brienne was on her back, panting and half wild with want. A crimson flush rose from her chest well into her cheeks, and the sweat stood on her brow, but she answered clearly: “You do not. You could not, Your Grace.”

“You’re a fool,” Cersei hissed. She had stopped moving during their exchange, but Brienne was too overcome to reply. She arched, then drove herself down, hard, on Cersei’s fingers, crying out as Cersei filled her once more, deeper again with every thrust.

“We all belong to someone,” Cersei whispered to herself; she knew that it was so. And then, without stopping the movement of her right hand, she pulled her skirts up around her waist, and arranged Brienne bent-kneed and inviting. She straddled Brienne’s muscular leg, bearing down on the angled calf with her own wet sex.

Brienne gasped when she felt Cersei’s nakedness upon her. “Your Grace,” she moaned, and the evidence of Cersei’s own desire, hot and slippery against her leg, kindled a spark in her belly that had little to do with their sex.  

She reached a hand down and beneath Cersei’s gown, wanting to touch, to bring Cersei to her pleasure with her own hands. But Cersei half rose, pulling away, and used her unoccupied hand to pin Brienne’s wrist with a sharp shake of her head.

And then, before Brienne could protest, before she could even think, Cersei’s other hand pushed and twisted hard inside her and in the next instant Brienne had swallowed her to the wrist.

It was Brienne’s turn, then, to struggle; she thrashed beneath Cersei, on the knife’s-edge of pleasure and pain as Cersei pumped her fist slowly inside her. She twisted her head against the bedclothes, seeking something with which to stifle her cries; she did not wish to scream, but could not stop the agonized sobs of pleasure Cersei drew from her.

“Oh please, Your Grace,” she begged – she begged for, she knew not what.  “ _Please_.”

Cersei was silent in concentration, working her fist inside of Brienne, and riding her leg intently.  Her breath came faster, ending in sharp gasps.

She drove into Brienne again and again, panting with the effort of her shaking muscles. Sometimes she bit her lip to keep her silence. Her arm trembled, but her force did not waver. At the same time, she thrust her sex against Brienne’s firm thigh, took her pleasure while Brienne fucked herself to satisfaction on her fist.

Their breaths came faster, faster, and mingled as each felt the wave of sublime pleasure cresting within her. They fought together towards it, comrades at arms, thrashing out at this pleasure as if they had not known it before.

Brienne arched up, wailed, cried out in wordless, agonized relief as her pleasure finally took her. More quietly, Cersei gasped, shuddered, moaned, and was still.

The room was quiet as each woman returned to herself. Outside, birds chattered to each other and the slight breeze stirred the curtains.

“By the old gods and the new,” Brienne swore under her breath.

Cersei withdrew her hand and collapsed down on the bed. Her eyes were closed tight. She fell in such a way that their bodies did not touch.  

* * *

The women lay together without moving for several long moments. The afternoon sun had turned the room into an oven; they were slick with sex-sweat and smelled of their pleasure.

Brienne turned on her side to face Cersei, reached out and idly traced the subtle web of blue veins just under the surface of her creamy skin. Her sex ached where Cersei’s hand had filled her; the hollowness in her chest now had a companion in her cunt. “The Lannister twins have undone me completely,” she thought with something like despair.

She spoke to ease the ache: “Next time, Your Grace, I should like to touch you. I should like give you pleasure.”

Cersei sighed, almost inaudibly, and wiped her hand against the bedclothes. “No one gives me pleasure, Brienne. No one has for a long time,” and though neither woman moved, the distance between them suddenly grew. Cersei turned her face away. “I care for myself.”

Brienne moved closer. It was the first time Cersei had used her name. She dared to bite at Cersei’s neck; licked and tasted the salt of their sex.

Thoughts of another coalesced in the room; he was with them on the bed. She knew Cersei thought of him too.

The Stormlands ballad thrummed with every beat of her heart: _I am blown along a wandering wind, and hollow, hollow, hollow all delight._

**Author's Note:**

> The Stormlands ballad is adapted from Tennyson.


End file.
